I have a tenuous but still cherished connection with the fabled Ruttonjees of the cover story "Wealth and welfare” (Parsiana, May 7-20, 2025). My granduncle, Rustom (Mamaji) Desai was their gher jamai (resident son-in-law), leaving his Calcutta home to marry Tehmi, after whose early death from tuberculosis the family endowed the celebrated Ruttonjee Hospital. With his three piece suits, manicured nails, clipped Gujarati and aura of what I later identified as Eau de Chine, he was the most dapper man we’d met.
His arrival every two years was as fraught as it was awaited. Mummy, Daddy, Dhun fui (paternal aunt) and our carefree bachelor Fali kaka (paternal uncle) would go as a welcoming party to Dum Dum aerodrome, and languish for hours before he emerged through Customs. This was the ordeal of every traveller during the socialist years. But Hong Kong passengers meant smuggled gold and therefore an especially sadistic wringer.
Above, from l: Tehmi, Vera and Rustom Desai
My cousins, sisters and I would be genuinely thrilled with our presents. Dad, kaka and Pesi fua (paternal aunt’s husband) too with their fine suit lengths. But Mum and aunt had to try hard to be enthused. Their gifts, invariably, were finely embroidered silk underwear, perfect for reed-like Chinese figures, not portly Parsi matrons.
Mamaji would stay at Great Eastern Hotel opposite the governor’s mansion. Apart from its luxury (no one knew "five star” in the 1950s and early 1960s), his choice was determined by the Hotel being presided over by a fellow Parsi, Ardeshir Billimoria.
The high point of Mamaji’s visit was a picnic at Botanics (gardens), home of the Great Banyan. It was quite a production. A station wagon would be requested from my father’s printing press client, Abdul Rahim Osman. The entire extended family would pile into that wood-panelled vehicle, with icebox, dhurrie, balls, bats, board games. Wedged in were Saifuddin, the trusty cook, and an Icmic steam cooker.
Rhyming with picnic was incidental, because the Icmic was the mainstay of every Parsi kitchen, as thrifty as it was convenient. Invented by a Bengali polymath, it was slow-cooker, food-warmer and no-energy consumer. The Icmic elevated our Botanics picnic in a way that not even the most decadent hamper could. As we children ran around and the adults swigged chilled beer, Saifuddin organized the raw ingredients and charhao-ed (started) the cooker. A full, hot dhansak lunch was ready when we were.
Mamaji doted on his only daughter, Vera. Since she was a soprano singer, her name wasn’t pronounced like some Khorshed Mansion aunty, but the propah "Vyerah.” On much pleading by the Kanga family elders, one year he condescended to expose her to insalubrious Calcutta. She was as lovely to be with as to behold, though we stopped mid-tuneless note when she began her operatic rendering of Happy Birthday.
I still treasure the pearl string she sent for me when I passed out of school.
BACHI KARKARIA
bachi.karkaria@gmail.com